


If you must mourn, don't do it alone

by Lorerei



Category: The 100 (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst, F/M, Past Relationship(s), Romance, Set after 02x08, Spoilers, i guess?
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-12-19
Updated: 2014-12-19
Packaged: 2018-03-02 04:00:36
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,683
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2798771
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lorerei/pseuds/Lorerei
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Bellamy grabs her hand and squeezes.</p>
            </blockquote>





	If you must mourn, don't do it alone

“What are you doing, Clarke?”

He’s standing near her but it’s dark, so dark, she can only make out his eyes, alert and concerned, and deep line between his eyebrows. The rest of his silhouette is lost in the shadows, but she notices – he makes a step forward, his arms outstretched as if he wants to grasp her, or maybe plead.

Instinctively, Clarke takes a step back. She’s on the edge now, ground rocky and uneven under her feet.

One more step –

“Clarke, what the hell are you doing?”

Now there is a mixture of urgency and despair in his voice, and even in the dim moonlight she can see how rigid his posture is; muscles tensed, eyes fixed on her.

They look at each other for such a long time. It may be a way of saying goodbye, or it may be some kind of silent conversation; except that she has nothing to say, and nothing what he could say would change her mind anyway.

There is Bellamy: tall and sinewy, beautiful in a strange, wild way. Dark curly hair, black like all the things she likes – charcoal, ink – and eyes brown like chocolate she knows from stories. Lips full but so seldomly smiling and constellations of freckles scattered across his cheeks. Strong hands, strong words, that’s all he is, and it’s all too much. _So different_ , thinks Clarke, _not alike him at all_. There is nothing gentle, nothing mellow in Bellamy. He rarely hesitates – perhaps except when it’s for her – and never looks for peace where the peace can’t be found.   

There is one more thing – he is alive. And she doesn’t have his blood on her hands.

Time hangs heavily. The only noise comes from the forest, but it’s quiet too; soft sighs of wind and muffled whispers of river flowing below. Clarke’s getting colder with every passing second, cold outside and cold inside, so cold that her bones hurt. Icy breathe emanates from the steep ravine behind her, and she shivers suddenly, tremors rocking her body. That seems to propel Bellamy to action; he changes his stance but stays put. Instead of coming closer, he simply says her name – this time with tenderness in his tone. She blinks and trembles; wants to answer so badly, wants to answer his open hands and pleading eyes, but words are caged within her and she can’t move.

“What are you doing?”

He’s not closer but his voice feels seems to be, because these words  - which he says like a caress, in such an intimate fashion – seem to be whispered directly to her ears.

“I don’t know,” her voice is feeble. She speaks like a child, repeats the same sentence in this shaky strange voice that doesn’t belong to her   _I don’t know, I don’t know, I don’t know_.

He is looking at her, observing – waiting for the sign, she realises.

“Bellamy”

“Wait for me there,” and there it is, a hint of order in his tone, a glimpse of real Bellamy, Bellamy the leader, Bellamy the commander.

He crosses the distance between them in several quick strides. All of a sudden he is so close that his very presence overwhelms her. The warmth radiating from his body seeps into her skin, heats her bones and loosens her muscles.

Sobs escape her lips with surprising force, leaving her chocking and gasping for air. Clarke’s lungs are burning and eyes are blind from tears, but she feels Bellamy’s fingers brushing her hand. His touch is fleeting, too delicate – she need something to hold on, like a drowning person, because she is drowning, going under water, down and down and down. He must feel it because he grabs her hand and squeezes. Sure, calloused fingers against her own.

She cries, which is so unlike her, for what feels like a small eternity. Bellamy is quiet, doesn’t try to offer any words of consolation or justification and Clarke is extremely grateful for that. His company is a solace in itself.

The unspeakable horror of what she’s done is all she can think about. Scenes from that evening flash before her eyes, and she’s there again and Finn is condemned to slaughter; _I love you too_ , and _I’m scared_. The taste of his lips – the taste of tragedy – ragged breaths _you’re gonna be okay_ and finally angry bloodstain blooming on his shirt. This happens again and again in her head, vicious unstoppable force making her go back there and experience those dreaded moments in endless circle.

Bellamy waits patiently. He doesn’t complain when Clarke’s nails dig into his palm; just stands there for her, stock-still  on the edge of the cliff from which little Charlotte fell. Clarke calms gradually, her breathing slows down and tears stop flowing, but it’s a misleading peace.  She still holds the knife, cold in her hand, still feels Finn’s muscles spasm as she stabs him, Raven weeping not far away enough.

She gets crazy, babbles nonsense, pulls her hair. _Please, let me go. Please, Bellamy_.

Clarke begs for absolution and the absolution is down below, where little Charlotte went, when Clarke needs – has – to go.

“Let’s just wait for the sunrise”

The night is already creeping away. First licks of colour appear on the sky, brushstrokes of pink and purple and red. It’s getting louder too, first birds chirp gleefully and river roars as current grows stronger with every passing second.  

“I can’t wait, Bellamy,” she’s so exhausted, so sleepy. “Not any longer”

In the grey light of early morning his face looks even more serious than usual; events of the last days drag the corners of his mouth down. There is a nasty crescent-shaped scar on his cheek, and his upper lip is split.

Bellamy looks at her pensively, different emotions  fleeting across his face, though no there is no sign of anger or impatience. He sighs and looks at the sun. It’s Clarke’s turn to stare; his eyes reflect the festival of yellow, gold and red. Warm light bring out planes of his face – gracefully carved cheekbones and soft outline of lips. Eventually, he turns back to her.

“If you go, Clarke, I go with you”

She tries to say something, panic already rising in her, but he won’t let her.

“You are not going alone there, Clarke, that I can promise”

“I’m not taking another life, Bellamy. You are not dying because of me –

“Then stay”

There is steely finality in his voice, and challenge in his eyes. She protests, not scared anymore, just angry.

“I killed him. I killed him, which means that I don’t deserve – I can’t stay”

Bellamy is not belligerent any longer, his shoulders sag in defeat.

“We are all killers, Clare, one way or another. If you ask me, it was an act of kindness” 

He’s not looking at her; his eyes are wandering, grazing abundance of trees, blooming garlands of flowers, canvas-like sky.  They are still holding hands, intertwined fingers stiff and slick with sweat.

“If you ask me, it’s a privilege to die in your arms. What I’m trying to say – Clarke, they would kill him anyway, you know they would. And you gave him a good death. You did the same with Atom, back then.”

“But he is gone, Bellamy”

“So many people are as well. I know you loved – I know you love him…” he stops suddenly and silence stretches between them for a long time.   

Clarke is the first one to step away from the edge. She pulls his hand, and Bellamy follows, close behind her, his warm breath fanning her neck. The path is narrow, protruding roots and low-hanging branches make it almost impossible for them to walk side by side, yet Clarke doesn’t want to let go of him. 

They march briskly for a few minutes, with her leading. The air is heavy with things unsaid, they both feel it, she’s sure of that.

Clarke slows down as they are reaching a meadow. There are no luminous flowers – just clumps of fern and wild flowers – poppies, cornflowers, daises.

“Something wrong? Did you hear –“

She detangles their interlaced fingers, puts her hands on his shoulders and stands on her tiptoes. Then, she kisses him.

It lasts for a second or two, but it’s enough for her to learn the softness of lips, remember how they quivered – in surprise? Lust?

Bellamy is clearly shocked; he glares at her in bewilderment.

“Are you _out of your mind_ , Clarke – “

He doesn’t get to end the sentence, because she does it again, this time much faster. He  won’t  let her in, so she kisses his cheek, neck, collarbone peeking from worn-out t-shirt. Bellamy pushes her away, gently but decidedly.

“It’s not a good idea”

Clarke laughs, actually laughs – the mere thought that Bellamy Blake, lover extraordinaire and enthusiast of threesomes wants to be careful when sex is in question – makes her crack up.

He is serios though and seems to be vaguely hurt, and that’s not what she wants.

“It’s something I wanted to do for a long time”

She wishes she was brave enough to say: _you were my first choice, the one I was scared to make_ , but it’s too soon and she’s too scared, so she shrugs instead.

”It’s nothing; it’s saying thank you”

“You were right before, Bellamy. I love him and that feeling won’t go away; pain won’t go either, but…” she shrugs again all, of sudden feeling lost.

Bellamy just stares at her, not maliciously – just with curiosity and a trace of distrust and Clarke waits for something – for his decision; will he reject her? Maybe ignore her, pretend that this never happened? He probably won’t take it serious, not in this time and not after this night.

She’s exhausted though and that tiredness reaches way back, very first day when she fell in love with two people at once and made this and not that choice. She doesn’t want to be with Bellamy, not yet anyway, not when Finn’s blood is still wet on her hands. But maybe someday –

Bellamy grabs her hand and squeezes.

**Author's Note:**

> Well, here it goes. Sorry for all hypothetical mistakes, out of character Clarke and cheesy ending. Hope you will like it, tho. Title is shamelessly taken from 'You' by Keaton Henson.


End file.
